


No Offense

by lucymonster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Begging, Control Issues, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, Kink Shaming, M/M, Sub Steve Rogers, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This isn’t about who’s stronger or better at fighting," Steve says wearily. Bucky doesn't look convinced.</p><p>(In which Steve reintroduces Bucky to the idea of sexual submission, and runs into some problems - just not the ones he was expecting.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Offense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [birdbrains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdbrains/gifts).



> This fic contains one instance of some pretty major sexual boundary-crossing. Please see the end notes for more detail if you're worried about triggers, and thanks so much to hobbitdragon for alerting me to the need for a warning.

The first time Steve introduced Bucky to the Avengers, Stark prodded Bucky’s metal arm and demanded to know how the Soviets, of all people, could have gotten their hands on such advanced tech.

It’s the only other time in his life that Steve has ever seen Bucky look so offended.

“I didn’t mean it that way, Buck, I just...for god’s sake,” Steve says, and resists the urge to tear at his hair in frustration. “All I meant was that you’re not dangerous to me. _To me_. Because you’re my friend, and I trust you not to hurt me.”

Bucky doesn’t look convinced. He’s on his feet, arms tucked tight across his chest; his voice has gone low and shaky with the effort of not shouting. “One time. One time I fuck up a mission, and you think it proves that you can wipe the floor with me whenever you want, is that it?”

“Bucky, _no_. Are you even listening to me?”

“Because it’s bullshit.” Bucky gives up on not shouting. His voice shoots up about an octave. “I got confused, and you took advantage of that to keep me off my game, and of course you think that makes you _so_ much better than me -”

It’s nine am on a glorious sunny Saturday, and Steve is standing in the middle of his living room arguing about whether or not his refusal to let his brainwashed best friend help Hydra achieve world domination was _taking advantage_. He rubs his eyes, but Bucky’s scowling face is still right there in front of him. “You know exactly why I had to do what I did,” Steve says levelly. “This isn’t about who’s stronger or better at fighting.”

“I _know_ that,” Bucky snarls, and ploughs straight on with his argument. “And you didn’t even win properly, you’ve got no right to get all high and mighty. You _jumped into a fucking river_.”

Jumping into a river doesn’t sound so unappealing right now. “Fine,” Steve snaps. “Fine, I take it back, you’re dangerous. You’re an untouchable badass and I’m lucky to have survived our fight and I must have been out of my mind to forget it, and god help me if I ever make the same mistake again. Is that what you want to hear?”

Bucky’s eyes blaze with fury. “You know what, _fuck_ you -”

“Apparently not, since it’s so goddamn _dangerous_.”

Bucky’s jaw works furiously. He opens his mouth, sucks in a deep breath, then closes it; he clenches his fists and opens his mouth again, and then without another word he spins on his heel and storms away.

Long story short, Steve’s first attempt to discuss sex with Bucky is not a runaway success.

-

The stupid part is that none of this was ever an issue, back when Steve was so small and light that Bucky could have knocked him flying with a badly-timed sneeze. He used to rub it in Steve’s face all the time. “Look at yourself,” he’d murmur, as they lay tangled together on their shared single bed. “You wouldn’t stand a chance against me, would you? That’s why you’re gonna be good for me now.” And then he would grab Steve by the scruff and force his head down until his feeble protests turned into moans around Bucky’s cock. Sometimes Steve would gag on it and Bucky would spank him, hard and ruthless over his knee, so that for days afterwards Steve would feel the impact whenever he sat down.

They used to laugh about it together, in a clumsy way that was half sincere and half solemn ritual. “You know I didn’t really mean all that stuff,” Bucky would say, and sling a careless arm around Steve’s shoulders. “I was just playing.”

“Course,” Steve would say, nestling closer. “In a real fight we both know I’d kick your ass.” They’d carried on the ritual even after the serum, on the rare occasions they found time to be alone together. If it had bothered Bucky then, he never let on.

A lot of things bother Bucky now that didn’t use to.

They’ve had sex a few times since Bucky came back. Technically. Steve’s still not sure whether the fumbled (on Steve’s part) and perfunctory (on Bucky’s part) handjobs they’ve exchanged actually count as sex. When he’s not actively thrusting into Steve’s hand, Bucky tends to act as though their live-in relationship is one between two soldiers on assignment from different units: friendly, and more or less mutually respectful, but never serious. Never _intimate_. And the few times Steve has tested the boundaries - a forehead kiss here, a tender word there - Bucky has tolerated it for exactly as long as it took him to get off before retreating straight back to the safer territory of casual camaraderie.

Maybe Steve should have paid more attention to the warning signs. Maybe he should have been clearer with himself that things were different now, that _Bucky_ was different, that in many ways theirs was a new relationship and not one they were easing back into. Maybe it had only been the endorphins talking when he looked into Bucky’s flushed, sweaty face after their morning workout and thought he saw a tiny flicker of his own want staring back at him. But he’d been reckless, giddy, impulsive, and Bucky hadn’t pulled away when Steve had stepped in to close the distance between them.

Bucky had seemed fine with the kissing, at first.

(If he shuts his eyes, Steve can still feel the lingering press of Bucky’s lips on his. Can taste the salt of his sweat, can feel the taut ripple of his muscles, can see his eyelids flicker closed as he realises what Steve’s doing and, in the space of one racing heartbeat, decides to let it happen.)

But then Bucky was kissing _back_ , urging Steve backwards against the wall, and Steve had pressed his lips to Bucky’s ear and let the words flow like water from a burst dam. Words he knew by heart, though it had been decades since he last spoke them. _I want you. God, I want you. I want to be good for you, I’ll do whatever you want...make it hurt, I don’t care, I want you to hurt me…_

That was when the fight had started.

 All the memories, the fantasies, the secret longings that had kept Steve awake for so many restless nights since the first day a tired, unshaven Bucky had tossed his battered duffel onto Steve’s couch and announced that he needed a place to crash - all of them are out in the open now, and the worst part of it (worse than the guilt, worse than the sharp sting of Bucky’s outburst, worse than the gnawing embarrassment of rejection) is that now Bucky won’t even talk about it.

Steve half expects Bucky to make himself scarce in the days after their argument. He’s not sure why, because it’s not like he’s ever seen Bucky run from a fight before. In the face of conflict, Bucky plants his feet and braces - he doesn’t give an inch, not even over stupid things like which movie to watch or whose turn it is on dishes. And so when Steve emerges from his room the morning after, it’s to find Bucky already installed on the living room couch with his feet up on the coffee table, watching cartoons at an obnoxious volume and eating Cheerios out of the box.

 _This is my space_ , his body language screams. _What are you going to do about it?_

Steve takes in the set of Bucky’s jaw, the obstinate tilt of his head; he takes in the drape of his metal arm across the back of the couch, spread out to occupy as much physical space as possible. All at once Steve feels very tired and very small, and the idea of making himself scarce for a few days seems suddenly very tempting.

“You want coffee?” Steve offers, after the several quiet minutes it takes to establish that Bucky is not, in fact, going to look away from the television and acknowledge Steve’s presence independently.

“Three sugars,” says Bucky, and stuffs another fistful of Cheerios in his mouth.

-

Steve spends a few days in Iowa, of all places, helping the Avengers dig out a Hydra terror cell that has apparently been incubating inside one of the state’s largest ethanol plants. Bucky scoffed openly when he eavesdropped in on Steve’s first briefing. “What,” he said, ignoring Steve’s efforts to maneuver past him through the doorway, “they’re gonna bring down the US government by holding our corn supply hostage?”

(Bucky isn’t allowed on missions with the Avengers. It’s pretty much the only thing that the Avengers and Coulson’s new SHIELD all agree on. Coulson doesn’t like his agents freelancing; the Avengers don’t like their agents blowing up government buildings or carrying intel back to Coulson or making fun of their philosophy of non-aggression.)

This time, at least, Bucky’s scorn turned out to be not too far off the mark. There was nothing in Iowa that suggests any coherent plan for world domination. Mostly there was an efficient and profitably run ethanol plant, and a site supervision team with a ruthless but technically legal approach to human resources. Steve almost thought they were infiltrating the wrong place, until Rhodey uncovered the first stash of miniaturised nuclear warheads hidden in a corn silo.

Steve is dead on his feet by the time Tony’s private jet drops him off back in New York. His eyes are dry and sandy from exhaustion, and his uniform is sticking unpleasantly to his skin. All he wants is to head home and climb straight into the shower and from there into bed. Given the terms he and Bucky parted on, he has an awful feeling that isn’t going to happen.

It is possible - just possible - that Bucky will have used their time apart to cool down from his anger. It’s much more likely he will have used it all to stew, so that when Steve gets through the door Bucky will be ready to go with a fresh new litany of indignant accusations.

Steve’s not expecting a particularly warm welcome, but he’s still put off by the sullen glare that meets him when he steps into the living room. Bucky is scrolling his laptop in front of a muted TV, but he shuts off both the instant Steve lays eyes on him, and scowls like Steve has interrupted him in the middle of something very private and very important.

Porn, maybe. Or highly confidential SHIELD business, or videos of cats. It’s impossible to tell with Bucky.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, trying not to sound too tired or stressed or anything else that might make Bucky think now is a good time to move in for the kill.

Bucky clutches his laptop to his chest, as if he’s trying to shield it from view. He looks Steve coolly up and down. “You look like shit,” he says. His frown softens; his lips quirk up a little at the corners. “Did you get hit by another falling skyscraper?”

A wave of relief washes over Steve - Bucky seems normal; maybe he’s been blowing it out of proportion, maybe things are alright after all - and he forgets about his grimy clothes and sinks down onto the couch. Bucky frowns again, but he moves his feet to accommodate Steve without complaint.

“Falling grain silo, actually,” says Steve. “There aren’t many skyscrapers in rural Iowa.”

Bucky snorts. “You’d find a way.” But then he frowns again, and turns his head away sharply. Steve’s heart sinks. Things aren’t okay. Bucky just isn’t going to be the first to bring it up.

Probably the smart thing to do would be to walk away. Take a shower, get some sleep, deal with it later when he’s not running on fumes. But then, if Steve were smart about Bucky, they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. “Listen,” he says cautiously, “about the other day -”

“Forget it,” Bucky says.

Steve presses on. “I got carried away. It’s obvious that I made you very uncomfortable -” Bucky’s scowl darkens. “That was wrong, and I promise it won’t happen again.”

“That’s not what it’s about.” Bucky’s voice is sharp.

“Then what is it about?” Steve asks. Bucky still isn’t looking at him - he’s staring fixedly at the blank TV ahead. His eyes are shifting all over the place, up to Steve’s face, down at his own hands, then back at the TV all in quick succession.

When he finally speaks, the words all come out in a rush. “I know things have been difference since I came back and you’re always trying to make things more like how they used to be. But there’s other ways, really, you don’t _owe_ me that, Steve.”

This all makes so little sense that Steve is struck momentarily dumb. Bucky looks…scared isn’t quite the right word. He looks _anxious_ , somehow softer than usual, and he’s knotting his hands in his lap, white knuckles standing out through papery skin. Steve can see every dark blue vein winding its way between the tendons. “Bucky,” he says at last, when he thinks he has deciphered the main slant of Bucky’s objections, “I wasn’t coming onto you because I thought I owed it to you.” Steve is confident that, if Bucky thought he was _owed_ sexual favours, he wouldn’t be remotely shy about asking for them. “I was coming onto you because I was horny and I wanted to. And obviously I’ve crossed a boundary, and I won’t make any excuses for that. I never want you to feel threatened -”

“There you go again,” Bucky snaps. The soft expression vanishes immediately. “I’m not fucking _threatened_ by you. How tough do you think you are?”

Starting this conversation while exhausted was a bad idea. “Why do you care so much?” Steve shoots back before he can think better of it. “Why are you acting like this is some power game? I’m not trying to attack you!”

“I’d like to see you try!”

 _Don’t engage, don’t engage._ “All I’m trying to say,” Steve pushes on in a voice of forced calm, “is that I don’t expect you to do anything you don’t want to do. And I don’t want to push this, so I’m going to back off and give you as much space as you need to feel comfortable.”

He’s scrambling for the right words that will defuse the situation. But inexplicably, Bucky looks even angrier than before. “Stop making it all about me,” he says. “You’re the one with the insane fucking guilt issues.”

“What are you on about, Bucky?” Steve demands. Bucky’s nostrils flare; he thinks Steve is being deliberately obtuse. “I’m asking sincerely. I don’t understand what’s upsetting you.”

“ _Nothing’s upsetting me_ ,” Bucky yells. “And nothing’s upsetting you either, or it wouldn’t be if you weren’t so obsessed with trying to make me _hurt_ you. I’m not going to, okay? And if you’ve got a problem with that you can shove it up your ass.”

Silence follows this pronouncement. Steve is cross-eyed with tiredness, too angry and confused and frustrated to formulate a reply. Bucky is glaring at Steve, that fierce, unwavering glare that says he’s going to die of old age before backing down.

But then, quite suddenly, Bucky’s furious expression cracks. “ _What_?” says Steve, but Bucky ducks his head and makes a strange, choked noise. “Shit, Bucky, what’s -”

“Shove it up your ass,” Bucky repeats. He looks up at Steve; he is wearing a slightly hysterical grin. “You know, since I’m not going to…” He dissolves into giggles.

Five seconds ago, when Bucky was shouting at him, Steve wanted nothing more than to take him gently by the shoulders and calm him down. Now, Steve wants to strangle him. “This is not the time, Bucky, Jesus _Christ_ -”

“Fuck you,” says Bucky. “It’s hilarious.” He giggles again.

“It’s juvenile.”

“ _You’re_ juvenile.”

“I need a shower,” says Steve. He’s so tired that the room is starting to swim before his eyes. He brushes past Bucky, who hasn’t stopped snickering; only when he’s reached the safety of the bathroom does he rest his head against the cool tile wall and allow his shoulders to slump.

-

They don’t pick up their fight again. There’s no point. Bucky insists he’s not upset, and as long as Steve doesn’t bring up the sex issue he seems happy to go back to acting like everything is normal and like Steve is just a friendly housemate who trains with him at the gym and does the lion’s share of the chores. He looks at Steve strangely sometimes, and he’s a little bit politer than usual, which is slightly unnerving - but for the most part, everything really does feel normal. Or as normal as it’s ever felt since Bucky came back.

Except that one night, about a week later, Steve wakes up. He’s tangled in his sheets, hair wild, mouth filled with the taste of sleep, but when he sees Bucky he forgets all of that, because Bucky is strung as tightly as a bowstring and he’s standing right there in Steve’s doorway, staring at him.

Steve’s stomach lurches. The dim light casts shadows on Bucky’s face, obscuring his expression, and his eyes reflect the glow of the streetlights outside like headlights shining through fog. And then - it happens so fast, Steve almost loses track of the movement - Bucky surges forward and grabs Steve by the throat and lifts him right up out of the bed.

For one wild moment instinct takes over, and all Steve can feel is adrenaline as he struggles in Bucky’s grip. But then his senses catch up and Bucky is _kissing_ him, or at least, sort of kissing him - there are more teeth than lips, more aggression than affection. But Bucky’s mouth is on Steve’s, and his stubble is rough against Steve’s face, and his hand at Steve’s throat is loose enough to allow Steve a ragged gasp of air. Steve doesn’t think. He can’t think. His insides are melting, his knees are turning weak. Bucky is kissing him and Steve thinks he might be drowning and it doesn’t even matter as long as Bucky keeps on -

“Move.”

Bucky’s voice is a low growl in his ear. Steve feels dizzy when he tries to hold his own weight, but Bucky has him by the waist now and is pushing him back onto the bed again. He pushes so hard that Steve knocks his head on the headboard, and Bucky is on top of him immediately. His metal hand bears down on Steve’s sternum to hold him to the mattress. They’re kissing, fierce and relentless, and Bucky’s free hand is on Steve’s thigh, pushing his legs apart. A violent tremor ripples through Steve’s body. His cock is hard and straining in his boxer shorts. His mind is a numb, buzzing blank. His heart is racing and his tongue is thick with the taste of copper...

And out of the emptiness of his thoughts, Bucky’s voice wells up in Steve’s head, angry and oddly sing-song. _You’re the one with insane fucking guilt issues. You’re obsessed with trying to make me hurt you_. There is blood on Steve’s lips, dripping into his mouth. Bucky thinks this is about hurting Steve, about damaging him, about defeating him. _You think you can wipe the floor with me…_ Bucky’s tongue pushes into Steve’s mouth. The blood taste is stronger, sickening.

Bucky thinks this is about dominance. And not in a fun, sexy, playful way. It’s too much. It’s too soon.

Steve struggles, trying to catch a breath, trying to clear his head. Bucky doesn’t let up. His teeth knock against Steve’s, his hand moves from Steve’s thigh to unbutton his own jeans. He’s moving too fast. Steve struggles again; Bucky presses down with all his weight, pushing the air from Steve’s lungs. This isn’t how it used to be. There’s no word of warning, no smile, no teasing banter. Steve has seen Bucky like this before, this serious, this single minded: he’s seen it on the battlefield, in the middle of a crowded highway, in midair over the Potomac with the wreckage of the Triskelion crumbling far beneath them -

Blind panic takes over.

“Stop, stop!” Steve shouts, and Bucky jerks back as though he’s been burnt. Steve scrambles upright, bracing himself against the headboard for support. He sucks in air in frantic gulps. Bucky is staring at him, wide-eyed and horrified. He seems to be frozen in place. The savage intensity has vanished from his face.

“I can’t,” Steve says. Bucky’s eyes don’t even flicker. “I can’t, I’m sorry, it’s just…” He sucks in another breath. The panic recedes a little. “It was too fast. I’m sorry.” Bucky’s hand twitches minutely. He doesn’t appear to be blinking. “Bucky?”

Bucky comes back to life. Even in the semi-darkness, Steve can see the blank look that has settled over his face. “You okay?” Bucky asks, his voice hoarse and very quiet.

“I’m fine,” Steve says. He breathes slowly, trying to calm his heartbeat. “It was just...it was more than I expected, that’s all. We still haven’t really talked about any of this.”

Bucky’s brows knit, but he doesn’t look like he’s pondering Steve’s explanation. His eyes have taken on a faraway look. “I told you,” he says flatly.

“You…” Now Steve is frowning too. The adrenaline is wearing off, and all of a sudden he feels very sick. His brain throbs dully behind his eyes. Told him what?

“I told you,” Bucky repeats. “This was a stupid idea.” He is getting to his feet, his movements slow and stiff like he’s forgotten how to unlock his muscles.

“Bucky -”

But the magic doesn’t work a second time. Bucky leaves without another word.

-

The following morning, for possibly the first time in all the years Steve has known him, Bucky doesn’t come out for breakfast. His bedroom door remains stubbornly closed, and Steve suspects he’s not actually behind it; the house feels cold, and the sounds of Steve’s movements seem to echo in the empty living room. If Bucky had wanted to leave the apartment last night, then the five storey drop from his window to the street wouldn’t have fazed him.

He used to disappear out that window every now and then, back when Steve first brought him home. Maybe he expected Steve to try and stop him if he left through the front door, or maybe he just didn’t like waiting for the elevator. Steve never asked. Bucky was never gone for longer than the gap between mealtimes, anyway, not even when he was pissed off with Steve. Which was pretty often back in those days. But they never used to fight like this.

God, Steve would give anything to take it all back. He should have had more self control, he should never have brought the whole thing up; it was always going to be a disaster, trying to reintroduce the games they used to play back when Bucky was a completely different person. He seems so stable now but, after all, Steve still has so little idea what kind of traumatic background he’s dealing with.

There have to be reasons why sex with Bucky is always so weird and impersonal now.

And he’d made it so clear, and Steve had stubbornly refused to listen. _You think I’m weak_ , Bucky had said. _You think you can wipe the floor with me_. Because Bucky thought this was about power. He thought Steve was daring him. He thought - probably still thinks - that Steve was asking to be hurt for real. Of course violence isn’t a game to Bucky, after everything he’s been through. He wouldn’t understand why Steve would ask Bucky to hurt him on purpose.

A small part of Steve, the part that isn’t busy drowning in shame and guilt, feels angry with Bucky for running away after an explosion like last night. Trauma or not, there are boundaries; coming at Steve like that - without asking, without even pausing to check - has to be one of them. Never mind how bad Steve might have wanted it. Never mind how, even now, another tiny part of him feels weak at the knees when he remembers the taste of his own blood in Bucky’s mouth.

They used to negotiate first. It was clumsy and awkward, and they didn’t have the specialised language that people have now, but they still used to fucking negotiate.

Maybe Bucky has forgotten how to do that, as well.

Steve doesn’t know how to talk about what happened last night. He doesn’t know when he’s even going to get the chance - there’s no knowing when Bucky will come back home ( _if_ he comes back home, Steve thinks, and pushes the thought away. There’s a reason Bucky came back to him after so long on the run. He has to believe that, even if Bucky sometimes acts like Steve is nothing more to him than a convenient housemate). He figures it’ll be a couple of days, at least, and so he’s surprised when he steps out of the kitchen that evening and sees Bucky standing in the living room, holding a sheaf of letters in front of him like a shield.

“I brought in the mail,” Bucky says.

Steve hesitates, watching Bucky carefully across the room. His eyes are drawn to the white of Bucky’s clenched fist, to the rigid set of his jaw - to the line of his lips, drawn thin and straight. An image flashes unbidden in Steve’s mind of crossing the room and kissing the tension from Bucky’s face. His heart skips a beat.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbles, and Steve realises that he’s been standing there silent, rooted to the spot by his own unwieldy imagination. But before he can collect himself, Bucky’s voice gains strength: “Did you cook enough for two? I’m fucking starving -”

“Bucky,” says Steve, and Bucky’s mouth snaps shut. “We need to talk.”

Bucky ducks his head. The mail crumple beneath his fingers, and Steve can hardly call to mind his icy fear and anger from last night. There’s nothing threatening about Bucky now, standing before Steve like a chastened schoolboy, lost and disoriented in the unfamiliar terrain of apology. He looks almost _cute_.

Telling him so would be a fast track to disaster. “Let’s sit down,” Steve says, because if they’re going to do this then they might as well do it properly. There’s no point pretending to himself that this is the kind of conflict he can sweep under the rug. Bucky must know it as well as Steve does. He sits, very carefully, in the armchair as far away from Steve as possible; he sets the crumpled up mail on the coffee table, and bunches his empty hands in his lap.

“I only want to talk,” Steve says, “if you promise not to fly off the handle again because you think I’m insulting you.”

“I won’t,” says Bucky. He looks up plaintively at Steve. “I don’t get it,” he says, and makes a sweeping gesture that indicates all of Steve and a substantial amount of the surrounding living space. “Every time I try to warn you, you think I’m just full of bravado or something. Like I don’t remember all the things we used to do in Brooklyn. But I get it, I do. I know it was just a dumb game we played. We were kids, kids do all kinds of stupid shit.”

Somehow, these words sting worse than when Bucky was shouting angry nonsense across the table. “It wasn’t stupid,” says Steve, bristling. “If you don’t enjoy it any more, that’s your business. I’ll never bring it up again if you don’t want me to. But don’t tell me what I like is ‘stupid kid stuff’.”

“We’re _soldiers_ ,” says Bucky, as though he thinks Steve is missing a crucial point. “Steve. We hurt people professionally. We’re the best in the world at hurting people. What if I hurt you for real? What if I knock you out or break your bones or...or stab a vital organ?”

Steve tries, and fails, to envision a scenario where accidental organ-stabbing could become a problem between them. Sometimes Bucky’s brain is a mystery. “Well,” he says, because bawdy jokes worked well enough at defusing the tension last time, “I was actually thinking more of a light spanking, maybe some handcuffs to start us off.” Bucky doesn’t crack a smile. “I get it, Buck, really. You don’t want to hurt me.”

Bucky snorts. “You don’t care if people hurt you,” he says, and he’s leaning forward in his chair now, forgetting all his earlier efforts to maintain distance. “You feel so guilty about everything, you probably think you deserve it. You _still_ keep trying to apologise to me for all the shit Hydra did that you weren’t even a part of.”

On the rare occasions Bucky has shared anything about his Hydra past, Steve has tried to encourage him, to validate him. _I’m sorry that happened to you. It must have been awful_. Apparently Bucky has been taking it to mean that Steve holds himself personally culpable for Hydra’s various atrocities.

“I’m not asking you to punish me,” Steve says. “I’m not asking you for anything I don’t enjoy. You gotta understand, okay, sometimes the right kind of pain feels _good_. I know you were never wired that way, even when we were younger -”

“Quit talking like I’m an idiot,” Bucky snaps. “I know how fucking masochism works. But you’d feel guilty telling me I’d gone too far. You wouldn’t tell me when I needed to stop.”

“I told you to stop last night,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky puts his head in his hands. He looks exhausted, defeated.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again. “I’m not trying to change your mind about doing any of these things with me. I respect that you don’t want -”

“I had a dream about you last night,” says Bucky.

Steve pulls up short.

“Another dream, I mean. It happens every so often. And they’re always such great dreams.” Bucky’s voice is thick with disgust. “Last night, I made you cry. You were already doing everything I wanted but it wasn’t enough, so I hit you across the face and told you what a pathetic piece of shit you were. How I was gonna use you til you were bleeding and drooling out of every hole, and then I was going to throw you away. And you started crying and I loved it, I fucking _loved_ it.”

Steve has stopped breathing. “Bucky -”

“So I grabbed you by the hair and rubbed your face in the carpet, to get rid of the tears, you see, because I’m thoughtful that way. And I told you how stupid and worthless you looked with your face all puffy, and I asked if you wanted to make it up to me for ruining the moment. I made you get down on all fours like a fucking animal, Steve.”

“What happened then?” Steve asks breathlessly.

“Then? Then I woke up,” Bucky snaps. “And I was so turned on I couldn’t even think straight, so I thought, oh, I’ll go wake up Steve, Steve’s into this, it’s what he wanted, right? And I scared the shit out of you and almost fucking broke you and shit, Steve, I’m sorry.”

It takes Steve a moment to find his voice. His ears are ringing, Bucky’s words are swirling through his mind, lighting him up, fogging over his brain; he can feel his own heart beating quick and hard in his chest. Bucky is spitting the words like bullets - warning fire, Steve things. Meant to scare him off. But it’s not...Jesus Christ, it’s really not working.

“Bucky,” he says, “please come here.”

“So you get it now,” says Bucky. His voice is starting to crack. “When we did this before it was fine because I was just a dumb kid, I had no idea how to hurt people for real. But it’s not like that anymore, if you come near me I will completely fuck you up, I mean it, so it’s better for us both if we just...if we just stick to normal stuff, and don’t think about all the other -”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says.

It all makes painful sense. The problem isn’t that Bucky doesn’t want to be with Steve like that anymore - the problem is that he thinks he wants it too much. And there’s so much Steve could say about that, _should_ say about that, but the vivid image of Bucky’s dream is still right before his eyes, and all the long months of frustration and want have coalesced into a single burning knot inside him. This is a reckless, stupid idea. This is not the adult way to solve any of his and Bucky’s problems. There’s going to be fallout later, and when it happens, Steve will deal with it - but right now there is only one thing in the world he cares about.

Bucky looks up from his private cocoon of shame. He takes in the look on Steve’s face and his expression turns to disbelief, and then to frustration - he groans aloud, and fists both hands in his hair. “For fuck’s _sake_ , Steve, weren’t you even listening to me?”

“I was listening,” Steve says. “God, Bucky, I was listening.” His cheeks feel like they’re on fire; Bucky’s eyes are slowly widening. “And I want it. Do you really not get it? That’s exactly what I _want_ from you.”

Bucky stares blankly at Steve.

“I want...fuck, I want all of it. Please. I say stop and you stop, I say anything else and you ignore me. And…” Steve swallows. “No carpet burn, okay? We’ll, uh, we’ll work up to that. But the rest.”

Steve looks Bucky right in the eye. Bucky’s face is an unreadable mask; his chest is rising and falling very quickly. “You’re serious,” he says.

“Dead serious.”

“That wasn’t dirty talk, you moron, it was a -”

“Warning, I know, I get it,” Steve says. His heart is pounding; he grins, reckless. “You wanted to prove that you’re as tough as I am, right? Well, now it’s time to put your money where your mouth is.”

It’s a risk. It’s a fucking stupid risk, and Steve half expects Bucky to lose his temper all over again, to clam up and circle right back to square one. But all he gets is silence, thick and heavy. Bucky takes so long to react that Steve feels himself start to deflate; this was stupid, it was too fast, Bucky wasn’t actually going to be okay with -

“Fuck it,” Bucky says, and kicks the coffee table aside and grabs Steve by the throat.

This time Steve doesn’t struggle. If he struggles it’s going to completely undermine his message about wanting this, and Bucky might stop - and Steve doesn’t think he can cope if Bucky stops. Bucky catches Steve’s lip between his teeth and bites, just shy of drawing blood, and Steve keens and goes limp in Bucky’s chokehold. He’s hard already - he’s been hard since Bucky started talking, god, what is _wrong_ with him - and when Bucky pulls him off the couch and forces him onto his knees, his cock throbs so hard it’s almost painful.

“This is what you want?” Bucky’s voice has gone low and dangerous. No hesitation, no easing in - he’s made up his mind, and he never does anything by halves. “You want to be crawling around on the floor like a fucking dog, is that it? Hero of the free world, and all you want to do is suck cock on your knees like an animal. Pathetic.” He sounds so genuinely angry that Steve can feel his insides going cold, and despite himself he tries to pull away. Bucky retaliates by shoving his head down, pressing him towards the ground, but he holds Steve by the hair to keep him facing up - making sure his face doesn’t rub on the carpet, Steve realises, and feels a rush of affection so intense he almost laughs.

But the angle is wreaking havoc on his neck. “Let go,” he hisses, but Bucky ignores him - just like Steve told him to. Steve’s insides feel molten; this is happening, this is real. This isn’t just a fantasy anymore. Bucky has made up his mind, and so they’re hurtling forward at breakneck speed like this has been the plan from day one.

Steve’s on all fours, spine arching, ass thrust humiliatingly up in the air, and when Bucky finally lets go of his hair Steve drops his head and rests it on one of his forearms. His heart is thundering in his ears, and for a moment he loses track of Bucky’s movements. “Take your pants off,” comes Bucky’s voice from behind him, but when Steve moves to sit up and obey, a foot comes down between his shoulder blades. “Stay where you are.”

It’s impossible to do both. Bucky has to know that. Steve tries anyway, feeling his insides squirm with embarrassment as he fumbles with his zipper, wriggles his ass in the air, tries in vain to get the fabric past his hips.

He can’t see Bucky’s sneer, but he can hear it in his voice. “Fucking look at yourself,” he says. “Can’t even follow the simplest instructions. You trying to get hurt, Steve?” He pulls Steve upright by the hair, shakes him like a fox with a rabbit. “What, you can’t speak now, either?”

“I’m sorry!” Steve gasps. Everything is happening so fast. He’s disoriented; he can’t keep up. Bucky pulls his pants down over his hips and then forces Steve back down, ass in the air; his pants are tangled around his knees. Steve is acutely aware of Bucky’s gaze on his bare skin, drinking in his disgrace.

It still comes as a shock when Bucky’s hand brushes his ass, running down the back of his thigh. Steve’s cock twitches. Bucky runs his hand back upwards, trailing one finger along the cleft of Steve’s ass. Steve whimpers. If Bucky wants him, like this, right now...god, it’s going to hurt. He can feel his insides clenching up in hot, sick dread. It’ll hurt like hell, and he’ll take all of it, and maybe when it’s over Bucky will let Steve get off too...

But Bucky’s touch is light - inquisitive more than anything, Steve thinks - and when his finger brushes Steve’s hole, he seems to startle. “Follow me,” Bucky says, pulling back. He takes the hall in several long strides and turns to watch Steve follow. Steve’s knees feel weak. Shame and arousal are churning in his gut, and he can’t remember ever having felt so exposed. “ _Move_ , Steve, now.”

Steve crawls forward. He is slowed by the tangle of his pants, and he feels foolish and disoriented and painfully unsexy. But when he finally reaches the end of the hallway and the door to his bedroom, Bucky reaches down and rests a gentle hand on Steve’s hair. “You’re still fine, right?” he murmurs, barely audible, as if by asking quietly enough he can avoid disrupting the fiction of the scene.

Bucky’s anxiety is palpable, and once again Steve is seized with the almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. But if he laughs, everything will be ruined - Bucky will take it as Steve laughing _at_ him, and Bucky can’t stand being laughed at. “I’m still fine,” Steve says.

Immediately the fingers in Steve’s hair tighten. “Then quit fucking around,” Bucky growls. He drags Steve the last few feet into the bedroom and drags him back up onto his knees beside the bed.

“You’re going to suck me off,” he says. For the first time, his voice wavers a bit; his eyes on Steve are hungry, wanting. A thrill runs through Steve, raising goosebumps all down his spine. He has wanted this for so long, wanted it ever since Bucky came back - wanted to touch him, to enjoy him, to relearn him. Wanted so much more than the rushed, businesslike touches that are all Bucky ever allows anymore.

He licks his lips. Bucky unbuttons his fly, grips his cock in his right hand. His left is on Steve’s shoulder. The cold metal fingertips dig in painfully.

“Let me,” Steve babbles. “Please - please let me. I’ll be good for you, I’ll -”

“Shut the fuck up,” says Bucky. His eyes are on Steve’s lips, rapt. “Come here and get your mouth on me.”

Steve has never wanted so badly to follow an order. He almost falls over his own tangled pants trying to get into position, and Bucky gives him no time to savour the moment - he wraps a hand around the back of Steve’s neck and thrusts into his mouth, and all at once Steve’s senses are flooded by the taste of Bucky’s skin and the hot, heavy weight of Bucky’s cock in Steve’s mouth.

Steve moans. He can hear Bucky breathing above him, light and quick and shaky; he opens his throat, swallows it down deeper. Bucky tastes the same as he always tasted. Steve swallows until coarse hair tickles his nose and then keeps swallowing, tongue working at the base, and Bucky takes another hissing breath and begins to thrust into Steve’s mouth.

He’s quiet. So much quieter than he ever used to be, but Steve can feel the vein pulsing along the underside of his cock, and when Bucky pulls back Steve can taste salty precum on his tongue. Bucky’s hand - the flesh one, the one holding Steve’s head in place - is trembling a little. Steve feels like he’s drowning. He’s not getting enough air and his head feels light and floaty, and the ache of his own cock is a distant backdrop to the taste and scent and feel of Bucky in his mouth. When he hollows out his cheeks, Bucky makes another tiny hiss. He needs this. He needs _Steve_ , and the thought is enough to send Steve’s head spinning all over again. Bucky grips tighter, fucking Steve’s mouth, nudging the back of Steve’s throat with each thrust. Steve longs to touch himself, but is he allowed? Bucky never said...but Bucky is starting to thrust into him harder, more erratic, and his blunt nails are scraping the back of Steve’s neck, and god, Steve could do this forever -

And then Bucky gasps and goes still, and Steve is swallowing around him as he comes. Bucky holds him in place and pants for breath, and when at last he pulls back Steve gulps in air and gags around the sudden emptiness in his throat.

Bucky sits down on the bed, very quickly, like his legs don’t quite want to support him. His eyes look glazed, but when Steve leans in and rests one flushed cheek against his legs he seems to come back to himself. “Get the rest of your clothes off,” he says.

 _Yes yes god yes_. Steve is in a daze, too lost in the moment to think much about anything - if Bucky offered him nothing in return, he could almost be happy just floating here in his hazy headspace and napping on Bucky’s legs. But now that Bucky’s attention is on him again, Steve is suddenly and painfully aware of his own arousal. All at once he feels like he’s going to lose his mind if someone doesn’t touch him soon.

But Bucky shows no sign of being about to touch him. When Steve has finished stripping off, Bucky props himself up on one elbow and regards him dispassionately. “Jerk yourself off,” he says.

Flat. Blunt. _Bored_. Like he doesn’t care anymore if Steve follows through or not. But his eyes are still fixed on Steve, and they track his movements closely when Steve sits back on his heels and wraps an obedient hand around his cock.

 _Fuck_ , it feels good. Steve’s eyes roll back in his head. He’s been touching himself for all of a second and he already feels like he could come on the spot.

“Don’t,” says Bucky, as if he read Steve’s mind. “Just keep stroking. Don’t slow down, Steve, don’t you dare lose it now. Even you aren’t this pathetic.”

Another pang of shame. It doesn’t help. “If I don’t slow down I’m going to come,” Steve says through gritted teeth. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I -”

 _Crack_. The slap sounds harder than it is, but the impact still brings tears to Steve’s eyes. He reels back, dazed. “I gave you an order,” says Bucky calmly. “Don’t come yet. Keep stroking. Don’t slow down.” With every word, he taps the side of Steve’s face in warning. “You want me to hit you again? You gonna keep misbehaving on me?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve gasps. The pain from the slap was a distraction, but he can already feel his insides coiling tight again. Orders or not, there’s no way he can make this last.

He tries. He bites his tongue hard, tries to focus on the pain of it, on the stinging of his cheek, on the slow, warning, circling touch of Bucky’s hand. A low whimper leaves his mouth. “Quiet,” Bucky warns. “You like sucking cock that much, do you, Steve? You’re falling apart already, Jesus.”

Bucky’s voice is picking up speed. The covers rustle as he slides off the bed, comes around to kneel behind Steve. He pushes Steve forward onto all fours, and Steve catches himself with his free hand. He hears Bucky spit, and then the blunt tip of Bucky’s thumb is pressing wetly at the rim of Steve’s hole. Steve cries out.

“You want it, do you?” Steve knows that tone of voice so well, he can _see_ the sneer that goes along with it. “Think you deserve it, all the fuss you’ve been making?”

Bucky pushes inside. It’s barely anything, just a gentle stretch, but it’s been so fucking long and Steve feels split open, helpless and aching and utterly exposed. “Yeah, you want it,” says Bucky indifferently. “My cock’s still got your spit on it, Steve. Think it would be enough?”

Steve can imagine it - Bucky’s cock forcing its way inside him, hot and hard and unforgiving. Ripping Steve open like he always used to, like he hasn’t for so long - “No,” Steve moans. “Yes. God, Bucky, _please_ -”

“Don’t come,” says Bucky. “Not til I say. Take your hand off yourself if you have to.” Steve drops his cock like it’s a firebrand, and Bucky makes a quiet noise of contempt and pushes his thumb in further. Steve is right there on the edge. He can feel his balls pulling tight, can feel the precum leaking from his cock, and when Bucky pulls his thumb out Steve sobs and tries to chase it with his hips.

When he pushes back in it’s with two long fingers, all at once. It hurts, but it doesn’t hurt enough, and Steve is vaguely aware of tears rolling down his cheeks but they don’t matter anymore, nothing matters anymore. “Bucky, please, _please_.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me come,” Steve sobs. Bucky’s fingers go still, and for one awful second Steve’s sure this is it, that he’s going to pull away now, going to leave Steve empty and aching and shattered.

“Touch yourself again,” Bucky says.

“Bucky, _please_ -”

“Touch yourself,” Bucky repeats angrily. He hooks his fingers sharply inside Steve, and pleasure shoots like lightning up Steve’s spine, and he’s _right there_ again and he’s teetering on the brink and his hand is frozen by his size, he can’t think, he can’t move, he can’t remember -

Cold, hard metal wraps around his wrist. Bucky’s left hand closes over Steve’s and yanks it to his cock, and Steve is shaking to pieces, he’s right there, he can’t hold it anymore. “Come,” Bucky says, perfectly calm, and that’s all it takes; Steve is falling apart, his vision is whiting out.

He comes down panting, slumped on the floor with one of Bucky’s hands (he can no longer tell which one) stroking slow, cool circles on his back. “So...that was unexpected,” says Bucky, characteristically nonchalant. And it’s so typical and so glaringly out of place that this time Steve can’t help laughing - but Bucky doesn’t seem to take offense. “C’mon, Steve,” he says, and his voice has settled right back to normal. He could be delivering a mission report, or commenting on the weather. “Let’s get you into bed.”

-

When Steve wakes the next morning, his bed is empty.

His body feels sated, his limbs loose and heavy. He vaguely remembers falling asleep last night - Bucky was there, Steve was using his arm as a pillow - and he definitely remembers everything that came before. His cock twitches hopefully beneath the blankets.

But Bucky’s not there now, and when Steve staggers out into the living room, the sight that greets him isn’t promising on the sex front. It’s just Bucky, Bucky the way he always is in the mornings, grumpy and rumpled on the couch, watching TV and eating sugary cereal by the fistful.

“Morning,” says Steve brightly. The unglamorous scene before him isn’t enough to dent his good mood. Nothing is enough to dent his good mood.

Bucky waves one sticky, sugary hand in a gesture that could mean ‘good morning’ or could mean ‘shut up’. “You making coffee?” he asks without looking up.

Apparently Steve spoke too soon. “Bucky,” he says gently, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just want to check -”

“Shut _up_ , Steve. They’re doing Bugs Bunny reruns.”

So apparently they’re back to square one on the whole intimacy thing. Steve sighs to himself, and picks out two large coffee mugs from the drying rack. Three sugars in Bucky’s, and extra coffee in the pot on the stove. Steve’s not sure, really, why he was expecting anything to change.

At least the sex is better now.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: Kind of a major plot point in this fic is that Bucky fails to grasp the difference between fantasies of sexual submission and a desire to be actually hurt outside of pre-negotiated scenes. At one point he comes onto Steve in a way that is unwelcome and violent, scaring him quite badly, but causing no lasting physical or psychological damage. Please read carefully!


End file.
